


recollections (his and hers, significance or lack thereof)

by decidingdolan



Series: theopolis (use at your own discretion) [2]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Banter, Behind Closed Doors, F/M, Fluff, His and Her POV, Humor, Teasing, Workplace Relationship, slightly free-form
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Second chapter added.] Impressions. They see what they want to see. She sees him in her own ways; he sees her in his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. her

He’s sitting on the bed, half turned away from her, shirt unbuttoned, boxers on, two-hundred-dollar tie hanging loosely around his neck. She’s laying on her side, watching him, curled black locks in disarray on her bare shoulders.

Her hand grazed his cheek, and he tilted his head in her direction, eyes shut, a hum in the back of his throat.

“I have to go,” he’s muttering, pressing his lips to her palm, “I have to go.”

She smiled.

Harry Osborn was, like many of New York City’s prominent public figures, a media mystery, a blurry screencapped shot on an archived video footage, a hurriedly snapped photo on a cell phone, a paparazzi’s source of income, a buzzing gossip word for the inner circle. Some called him the posh kid, the spoiled, regal hipster, the naïve, inexperienced Osborn who had yet to attach significant accomplishments to his reputation, other than his inscrutable presence as the returning prodigal son.

To her, he was simply Harry.

Forget “the boss.” Forget “Mr. Osborn.” She remembered him waving his hand with a dismissive flourish over the supposedly appropriate titles she had had in mind for him, the day they first met.

He was Harry. Harry, as a name, a name and nothing more. A first name, isolated from the complications that followed his last. A name, two syllables, all-too-commonplace for the son of a grandiose, ambitious scientific empire. A name, easy on the tongue and murmured and exchanged between them, day to day.

He was Harry, all sweet seduction and suave words. Harry, who casually slipped his hand in hers and whispered in her ear an invitation she knew was inevitable between the two of them, given his history. Harry, who requested her at the mansion, for her ‘official’ assistant interview that ended up concluding on his bedroom floor, sans clothes (not to state the obvious). Harry, eager, gentle hand disappearing underneath the hem of her dress, another effortlessly (he’s gifted, she’d give him that. Probably attributing the experiences to those models in his resume. His _other_ resume.) unhooking her bra. Harry, his lips crushing against hers, ravenous, his kisses forceful and dominating, his hands drawing invisible lines across her skin, his body pressing, grinding into hers.

Harry, the name—the only name—she was screaming, voice stretched thin and high pitched, as he thrusted, breathless, losing himself in her and forgetting his reality. She felt him shudder against her when it was over, rolling off of her, heart still tripling its beats.

Harry, walls broken and detached from the mess that was his life, stripped down and lying beside her. Harry, eyes shut, and muttering, wistful, about his hopes for himself. Harry, eyes red rimmed and voice strained, a quick kiss on her lips before abruptly collapsing on her bed one night.

I’m dying, he said, head on the pillow, arm resting on his forehead.

I’m dying, he repeated, the last word heavy with all the sorrows in his world, and she lay down beside him, body curling up to his.

She didn’t ask him why.

Wasn’t in her job description to.

* * *

Models were tiring, he said, hand playing with a strand of her hair.

She grinned, eyes lingering on his. How so? she asked, half-dare, truly intrigued.

He sighed, as if recalling an unpleasant memory, and shifted closer to her on the bed, arms drawing her close.

It was 9 a.m. on a Saturday, she remembered. They were both up ridiculously early for ones who had retired to bed a little before sunrise, the night (the morning?) before. The private, tragic lives of clockwork humans, but what could you do?

The alarm clock was off. The sun was up, light streaming in through the windows. The air was cold, too cold, for April (and she wondered if her apartment’s superintendent had decided to switch the heating system’s to spring, sooner than preferable for this horrid, indecisive winter). The covers, soft and crumbled, lay at their feet—must have unconsciously kicked them down again. His skin was lukewarm against hers, his breathing calm and even.

He launched into an anecdote about a klutzy, platform-heels-wearing blonde he ran into (literally) in Paris, the one who didn’t care to take off her shoes while he fucked her, the one who let out his name in strangled, accented cries.

He mimicked her particular version of butchering his name, and she laughed, a light, airy sound. She leaned in and nuzzled his nose, lips brushing against his.

Charming, she said, finger tracing a pattern on his shoulder.

He rolled his eyes.

The sex was good, he continued, for a model. Turned out she was working with a tabloid to get the details on him, and the story wrapped up from there, much too quickly for Felicia’s taste, thanks to the help of his personal bodyguards.

(The rich. What had they to worry about, anyway?)

What about you? he’s asking, kissing his way down her neck. How do I know you’re not spying on me?

You don’t, she muttered, tilting her head back, I’ll have you know there’s a camera in every room here.

Traitor, he’s smiling, and she knew he’s onto her. What’s fucking with an Osborn if not fucking with his mind a little? Just for fun. A morning warmup. _Just for fun._

I want you gone, he said, hand brushing across her thigh.

Her skin prickled. Goddamn, if she was going to give in so easily.

Do you, she shot back, rolling them both so that she was on top of him, Do you really.

His breaths caught, and she knew she was halfway there.

_Gotcha._

Absolutely, his eyes darken, lips capturing hers, Absolutely.

* * *

You look dead, she commented one afternoon, as she entered his office, folders in her arms.

He glanced up from behind his desk, eyebrows unfurrowing, a finger moving the screens on his desk to the side.

I’m trying this whole emo getup, he shrugged, a hand running through his hair, Heard it’s all the rage these days.

Menken got a stick up his ass again? she stepped closer, lay the folders down on his desk.

He chuckled. Every single day of his life—probably, he added.

She made her way to the back of his desk, surveyed the screens he was so intensely absorbed in, hands squeezing his shoulders.

Am I touching a human being? she asked, breaths brushing against his ear, You’re all knotted up, darling.

Tell me something I don’t know, he murmured, the stubborn edge in his voice returning.

How about I do you a favor? she suggested, loosening his tie, That’s new.

(They hadn’t done this here, not yet. What better time to start than now?)

He opened his mouth, and she sunk to her knees.

Let me, she said, fingers finding the zipper of his slacks and tugging down, It’ll help.

His eyes widened a little, to her delight, but he nodded.

She took him in her hands and gave a few light, testing strokes.

How are we doing, she asked, tone indistinguishable from the time she was checking if he had signed the approval form for a floorplan.

Fine, he grunted, hand gripping the side of his chair, Just fine.

Not the answer I was looking for, she muttered. Gave him a sly grin and bent down, hands gripping the base. Flicked her tongue against the head.

Result.

He moaned, cheeks flushed. _Felicia._

Her name through gritted teeth, consider step one done.

Her tongue’s circling the head—taking it slow—when his hands tangled themselves in her hair.

Please, he’s groaning, voice hoarse, Please.

But you’re already having so much fun, her look seemed to reply. His grip on her hair tightened, and she took that as a cue to suck on the head.

And he’s leaning back against his chair, shivering, moans rippling through his body.

Even better.

She took him in then, mouth, tongue and hands working on him. He’s breathing, gasping for air.

_Fuck, Felicia._

Swearing. How lovely.

She’s licking along the length, savoring him, finding a rhythm. He’s biting down on his lips to keep from screaming, hands knotted in her hair.

There’s a little teeth, but that was her teasing. She hummed as she worked, hands moving to hold on his thighs to steady herself.

_Felicia, come on, goddamn it._

He’s banging his head against the back of his chair, hips thrusting into her mouth, and she paused. Lifted her eyes up to appreciate the view, and found exactly what she was looking for.

She liked seeing him this way, debauched, loosen, scattered in one and a thousand directions at once, eyes glazed, beads of sweat on his forehead, in spite of the office’s air conditioning.

That’s it, Harry, let go.

She continues in a steady rhythm, bopping her head up and down.

_Feli—oh, fuck—I’m—Felicia—_

Gold stars, Mr. Osborn.

And he came, hands still in her hair, shoulders relaxing, eyes closed, mouth gaping.

She swallowed. Licked him clean and pressed a kiss to his thigh. Put him in his slacks and zipped him back up.

He’s breathing hard still, hands freeing her hair from his grip.

She got up on her feet and went behind him again. Hands on his shoulders.

There, all better, she said, All loosened up.

He reached for her hand, You’re a life saver.

She shrugged, stealing a kiss on his cheek, You don’t pay me enough for this, Harry.

You don’t do this often enough, Felicia, he replied, a corner of his lips curled up.

She swatted his hand away. Greedy, she said.

Only because of your lips, he smiled, his baby blue eyes glittering.

She shook her head, hand squeezing his shoulder one last time, and walked away, her black pumps clicking against the floor.

Don’t get too used to it, she called when she reached the door, throwing him a glance and disappearing into the hallway.

* * *

I have to go, he’s saying.

He wouldn’t say sentences like these unless he needed to, she knew. Harry was a hoarder, selfish, taking what he wanted, all he wanted, from her, as much as time would allow them in each period they had together.

And she let him.

That she’s there to help, to work for him was her priority. Handling him on off days, weekends, after hours, was extra.

Feelings, there were some. Pieces of her heart, perhaps, not a room. She had been around too long, long enough to know. Models and assistants would come and go, in and out of his life. She was no less disposable than the Saint Laurent varsity jacket he’d get bored of someday, and she was too sure of it.

_I have to go._

He granted her that courtesy, at least, letting her know whenever he’s leaving. A kiss on the forehead, a peck on the cheek, a fleeting brush of the lips.

Goodbyes were much better said in physical forms, she decided, if goodbyes also doubled for see-you-again-soons.

Until that day came, when she’s rendered into nothing but the next anecdote he’s using to charm the girl beside him in bed. When she’s a mere figure in his mind’s memory bank, a body entwined in his in the sheets, and a pair of lips he’s kissed well and often.

Until that day.

She stood her ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your support, darlings. You're my world :) x <3
> 
> I'm loving the dynamic between them so much that I have to write about Harry's side of things and his thoughts on Felicia. Coming soon!
> 
> PS. I'm so hung up on that varsity jacket. While Dane's worn it in real life, I'm sure Harry would have had it in his wardrobe as well. http://www.gq.com/images/copilot/style/201404/1398804107217_dane-dehaan-most-gq-moments-486627485.jpg


	2. him

She dragged him shopping one morning.

No excuses, no prior warnings. Just a “Get dressed. I’m in front of the door,” text to his phone that woke him up (it was ten in the morning, for Christ’s sake). He groaned, hand running through his tangled mess of a hair, and reached out a hand to buzzing device on the pillow beside him.

(Sleeping alone. That’s one for the record. Hey, even he needed a rest some nights.)

Felicia.

Only she would have the nerve to disturb his—he slid a thumb over the message—Wednesday morning (Work? What the hell was that?). One stretch. Two stretches. A yawn. And another stretch, just for good measure, before he half-sat up on the bed, a pillow propped behind him. Keys were fiddled with, locks were being turned, and half a breath later, he was staring at one of the most gorgeous sights to greet his eyes during a workday’s early hours.

Felicia, hair tied back into a ponytail, black blazer over a white shirt and jeans, topped off with those oxford platforms he was dying to get rid of.

(Not the point.)

“Harry,” she said, by way of greeting. His mind was blank enough to notice the slight weariness attached to her tone.

“Felicia,” he grinned, a hand tapping the space beside him on the bed, “Will you be joining me?”

Hell of a daybreak request from a boss, he knew. But she was here, on the mansion’s grounds, in his bedroom (not a first, and certainly wouldn’t be the last), and he couldn’t resist. Not when she looked too good not to be unwrapped.

She had a chuckle over that one. Those thin pink lips curled up, dimples on her cheeks. And he wondered—he had seen perfect faces before, the ones the world’s leading brands gambled away millions for, faces that crumbled and writhed, losing control underneath and on top of him—why her particular imperfections intrigued him so.

His cheek was being pinched when he blinked again. Felicia was standing next to his side of the bed, arms crossed over her chest. “Cheeky,” she tutted, hand trailing down his bare chest (his goddamn nerves being so shamelessly responsive to her touch), “But I’m here to help you dress, if necessary—“

The last couple of words were a blur. Her breaths lingered near his ear when she leaned in close, and his already wandering mind had checked itself out to vacation.

“—not undress,” she whispered, “ _Sorry_.”

The most sardonic apology he’d ever received.

Cruel world.

…. but not if he was around.

A quick wrap of his arms around her waist, a trick he’d learned in self defense class some years ago, his inherent ninja instincts, and she was on his lap, arms still locked at her chest, cheeks puffed out.

Cute.

“Harry,” she repeated his name again, not without a hint of sternness. Oops.

Blame him. Yes, go ahead. _Teach me a thing or two, miss. I’m ready for my punishment._

“Felicia,” was his natural reply, a finger traced down her back, voice low, a murmur, “Felicia, I’m sorry.”

Regret tuned just right. A little drop of forlorn added. A pout, a good one, for extra emphasis.

He felt her go still in his arms, and waited. This was her. This was her deciding, weighing options, considering scenarios, and he was only too happy to wait for any of them.

“Harold,” she started, eyes closed, and his blood ran cold.

Really, Hardy. Of all the ways out…

_Really._

“Harold,” warm, soft lips pressed against his arm, “Harold Theopolis,” the lips were at his shoulder, “Osborn,” the lips brushed his, drawing him into a kiss.

He frowned when they broke apart. “ _You_ are impossible,” he said, flicking at her nose. Theopolis. Fucking Norman. Gifting him with a ludicrous pomposity of a name, a scar guaranteed to haunt him for the rest of his life. Father of the Year, that one was.

She smiled, wicked and simple. “And _you_ are sorry,” she said, finger jabbing lightly at his chest.

He nodded, kissing the top of her head. “I _am_ , okay…you got me. I am.”

“Let’s get moving,” she was saying, tugging at his arm, “Come on, Harold Theopolis.”

He winced at the name, loosening his arms. Let her slide off of him. “If there’s one thing I—“

She was standing back in her place beside the bed, her laughter echoing off the walls.

“Only ever going to use it when you’re being so cooperative, I promise,” she replied, stepping over to open his closet, a few feet away from the bed.

“And when you’re not,” she had already picked out his vest, tie, shirt, and matching slacks. How deftly she had worked her ways around him, literally and figuratively, surprised him from Day One.

“You and I both know how fun that is.”

* * *

 She’s looking at him like the apocalypse was in a few hours and Godzilla was about to invade Manhattan.

“What,” he shrugged.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes surveying the kitchen in her vicinity, “This is not happening.”

He laughed, putting down the tray he was holding onto the counter in the middle of the kitchen. “Is it really that odd an occurrence to you?”

She’s shaking her head, stepping forward and snatching mittens off of his hands. “You’re scaring me.”

He raised an eyebrow, hand brushing his sides. “ _You’re_ scaring _me_ ,” he said, gesturing at her office clothes, “It’s your birthday and you’re working.”

“It’s my birthday,” she repeated, wagging a finger in his face, “And you’re baking.”

_Because Harry Osborn doesn't do predictable._

It's a talent, maybe. A gift. An adeptness around the kitchen, a flair for measuring and mixing and taking in little details. He's not a stress baker, not exactly, more like one when an occasion called for.

Peter, ten. A birthday cake. (Vanilla. Stopped peter's wandering hands just in time to save the cake batter.)

That redhead in college, a two-week exercise of effort on his part (which reached nowhere for both of them. Two similar, ignitable souls, he later reflected), British cream scone pudding. (Crispy, with a filling rich enough to reward him with a precious moan that sent blood down his body. Served while hot with vanilla ice cream and he was set for the night.)

And Felicia.

Felicia, personal assistant, secretary, mentor (schooled him in more ways than one), confidante, and (more than he'd like to admit) notable pillow talk partner.

Felicia, black button-up shirt and skirt, hair kept into a bun, all blood red lipstick and high heeled Mary Janes, diamond earrings and silver rings.

Felicia, bangs and freckles (he'd been underneath her skin too often to see past the makeup) and dimples and feline green eyes.

Felicia, now with wild hands gestures over the mess he'd made on the kitchen counter in front of him, flour, sugar, mixing bowl with a noticeable amount of batter remaining, cracked eggs, bottle of oil…

Felicia, stepping in front of him, the counter in between them, eyes demanding explanation, explanation, explanation.

He's got a dusty apron over his Metallica t shirt and jeans. There's flour in his hair and cupcake batter on his fingers, and she wanted to know why.

Birthdays were only once a year, insofar as he knew.

And red velvet. The right hint of cream cheese frosting, the perfect mix between sour and saccharine.

Exactly what she reminded him of.

So he pushed the tray to her and picked up a cupcake, holding it in front of her face.

“Come on,” he caught her eye, “So you can tell me just how awful it tastes.”

She nodded, looking him up and down.

Page Six’s Most Eligible Bachelor Number Eight? He’s nothing but a walking mess in the kitchen about now.

(But he couldn’t care less.)

“Sure you didn’t put poison in this?” she asked, tone lighter, shock replaced by amusement.

He shot her a look, as if to say, did you really think that badly of me?

She took the cupcake off his palm, placing it on the counter. A hand reached for his and held it level to her lips.

She took his finger into her mouth, rouge lips around his skin, tongue, cool and moist, swirling around. Her eyes were locked on his, watching.

He grinned. Licked his lips, heart banging against his chest.

Second finger, and he’s sliding over the counter to her side, arms around her, manuevering them so her back was to the counter. His lips found hers, just as she was seeking his, her legs wrapping around him as he hoisted her up on the counter, hands hastily brushing aside the cooking utensils to make space.

“If this is your way of saying happy birthday,” she breathed, hand untying his apron and tossing it off to the floor, “I’m choosing my own present.”

“Good,” he muttered, unbuttoning her shirt, lips following his hands down to the valley between her breasts, “’Cause it’s still waiting to be unwrapped.”

His hands left her shirt, grazing against her thighs. She’s biting down her lip, hands grabbing the counter on either side of her, and they could both read the message in her eyes.

_Higher. Do it. Higher._

“Lean back,” he said, hitching her skirt up and moving in between her thighs, “I’m lighting up the candles.”

He could swear she was grinning back at him as she lay down, head flat on the marble surface, hands ruffling his hair.

He had her underwear off then, lips pressed to her navel and kissing his way south, hands steadying himself at her thighs.

She moaned, lovely and long, the minute he finally got his lips on her. It’s a slow start, he’s peppering soft kisses over her, but they had all the time to waste.

Her grip on his hair tightened when he brought his tongue into her, nipping and sucking. Drinking her in.

She’s arching her back, panting, when he paused, glancing up at her.

“Haven’t heard a thank you,” he mused, smug smile on his lips, “Was there a thank you very much, Mr. Osborn? Was there? Hm? Tell me.”

She raised her head, words released through gritted teeth. “Harry…you fucking—“

He tsked, slipping a finger in and out of her. “Tut, tut, Miss Hardy, that’s not very kind of you to the handsome young man who’s also, wait, your _boss_ , is it?”

Sweet, breathless little whimpers.

His lucky day.

“Come on now.” He’s bent down, tongue slowly licking her from the bottom up.

What he got was a full body tremble.

“Harold Theopolis Osborn, I fucking swear to God—“

He shook his head, lips detached from her clit. “Sorry, wrong answer. Doesn’t work all the time, I’ll have you know. Overuse it, and I’m immune.” A kiss to her inner thigh. “Swear to God? I’m the one getting you off, darling, swear to _me_ , please, _do_. Friend of God right here. You, of all people, should know better.”

She snorted.

He cupped a hand over his ear, breaths lingering over her pussy. “What’s that?”

Another slow lick upwards, and she’s coming undone before his eyes, wet and writhing, offering herself up to him. “Thank—you—,” she was screaming, pulling hard on his hair, “— _asshole_.”

A smirk, a quick murmur, “Good enough,” before his lips returned to work (the pleasurable kind), tongue tasting, teasing, mapping her.

She came not long after, shoulders heaving, piercing scream from her lips (of his name, no less), hand grabbing him by the front of his tee.

He’s laying on top of her, chest to chest, tips of their noses brushing, within the next breath.

“Happy birthday, beautiful,” he’s whispering, finger tracing her flushed cheeks, a grin still on his lips.

She chuckled in reply, hand fisting in his shirt, drawing him in and pressing her lips to his. 

* * *

 There's something about tapping beats on a helmet at one a.m. in the middle of a sleeping Brooklyn street.

There's silence, of course, blatant emptiness of a deserted area, lit up by street lights, amidst the darkened windows of life, put to rest for the night.

There's those lone, singular tap, tap, tap of his fingers against the plastic, brought out against the cool, still air. There's little breeze at this hour, his usual wild hair kept in its place. There's not much to glance over, to survey, to focus his sights. It's the empty hour, the quiet hour, save for the occasional passerby and distinct shouting breaking through the night.

Checked his watch and the seconds hand continued to tick, well into the twentieth minute, so he started to whistle. A sad song, an upbeat song, a memorial in the form of musical notes for the departed, a song without lyrics, a tune, lengthy and heartfelt, a melody named for, perhaps, a group of stars.

The sky was cloudless tonight. He could spot the North Star from the corner of his eye, and somewhere the Pleiades. Stars. He's found himself looking up, looking in, looking within, wondering, more than once, what life may be like far from earth's gravitational hold, its dirt, its reality, its intangible, constricting obligations, regulations, laws, its truths, lies, and unwritten contracts, inheritance - wanted and unwanted, its people- those he loved, those he lost, those that returned to him and remained lost, those that never were found, and those whom he happened to come across along the way.

She was one of them.

That she was pretty enough to stand out from the rest of them, to capture his attention, that was the basis.

That she was composed of more, specifics and unique traits, convenience and subtleties, unspoken agreements and a hard copy contract, that was his preference.

And he met her eyes now, bright and scrutinizing, as she stepped out of her building's entrance, dark blue plaid hoodie over her azure tank top, glasses, seen when she poked her head out of the window at his honking, gone (why didn't she ever tell him anything?), hair loose to her shoulders, leather front black jeans paired with sneakers.

He'd only thrown on his leather jacket over the black v-neck and skinny jeans, but that would have to do.

Her eyes widened when she saw him first, twenty minutes ago. Surprise, he guessed. The timing...maybe. He had her taken for a night owl, anyway.

Coffee was their favorite morning poison, that he was aware. (Their particular sort of arrangement had taken away the romantic aspect of the caffeinated drink, but it was the way it had to be. She knew his coffee order by heart (caramel macchiato with an extra espresso shot) and that was what he expected of any personal assistant at all. She was his first, sure, and she may as well be his last. She would- actually. She would.)

It's one a.m., she was yelling out the window. He's smirking at her disregard for the general peacefulness of the neighborhood and his sudden intrusion, raising the spare helmet in her direction.

So?, he revved up the engine (It's the latest Harley-Davidson), voicing for him his invitation. There's no preliminaries with her. It was all stop and go, and he liked that.

You're a crazy son of a bitch, carried through the wind, was his reward.

(They’d think he got off on insults…

….and they would be right.)

Thanks for that mind blowing conclusion, was his way of saying "that's my girl."

Are you getting on? he asked her again, a confirmation, in case she'd changed her mind, which almost never happened.

_Good girl._

Are you serious? she shot back, probably hands firm on her hips by this point.

Thing was, that kind of question was always irrelevant to him.

Did you think I’ve put on all this for show? He’d had this answer ready – he knew her that much. Sorry, Miss Hardy, (last names were his favorite nicknames) the world doesn’t revolve around you sometimes.

Nice one. He patted himself on the back for that. Irony was fun.

She’d replied, lips pursed, not even the slightest hint of being taken aback for his entertainment (shame), So says the pot.

_Damn it._

Which is leaving, he announced, mind made up, Right about now.

She frowned, lips turned upside down, and that but put a smile back on his face.

That was the way it was between them, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

She whipped out a hand, pointing down at him. Fuck you, she said, Give me five minutes.

Always a delight to serve such a lady.

He wolf whistled at her when she stepped out, handing her the spare helmet, “You’ve cleaned up well.”

“You’re one to talk,” she shrugged, eyes narrowed, taking the helmet and mounting the bike, “Mr. I-Own-Too-Many-Vests-Than-Humanly-Possible.”

“They’re tailored,” he shot back, immediate, “Valid reason.”

She smiled, “I still maintain your vest aficionado membership.”

“Really,” he said, turning back to face her, hand brushing her hair back, “I’ve never seen it.”

She cocked an eye at him, “It’s just—“

He cut her off with his lips, smirking as he did so.

She pushed him back when he finally pulled away.

“The only thing standing in my way of slapping you is the stupid contract, Harry.”

“Well aren’t I a lucky man,” he muttered, broad grin on his face as he put the helmet on her.

She had him turning his way, to the front of the bike, his back facing her. “The least deserving,” she added.

“You don’t say.”

“The least. I mean it.”

“Liar.”

She punched him anyway.

* * *

"Your picture is getting quite a bit of likes," she was saying, finger scrolling down the familiar white-blue interface of the sprawling, omnipresent social networking site.

He reached over from his place beside her on the couch, grabbing the phone from her hand, not without the minimal amount of protest ("Would I lie to you?") and unlocking it to check the page for himself.

"I don't _have_ Facebook," he frowned, voice all too disappointed in the world itself, blue eyes locked on the screen, scanning and rescanning the page, "You know that."

Social media was a hot mess. A virtual, boundless online presence, accessible by anyone at anytime, whenever they felt like it? (The concept of security was bullshit. What was built and entered were as easily torn down and broken into. Information was fluid, was a currency. They'd be falling all over themselves to transfer his anywhere.

And passwords. About the idea of passwords.

Off the top of his head, it'd be too simple to guess.

She would know...and Peter. They'd know. They'd be the only two who would.)

Masks. Identities. Senseless obligations to post, to share, to engage, to spread viral material. The paparazzi was already a part of his public life. Involving himself as a node in such a network was handing over to them the key to his personal one.

Likes, dislikes. Movies, tv shows, music, books. the lengths people would go to share, to construct, to reinvent themselves baffled him.

So many things one could be. So many worlds one could (pretend to) lose oneself in. So many groups one could join and declare allegiance to.

It's a society divided, integrated, dissected. Mass attention, a singular ignorance, a few preferences, of one thing over another.

It's a world he wanted to be isolated from, an interconnected web of so called people comprised of binary codes that he'd wanted no part of.

She’d gotten her phone back, the next he knew. He was staring at an empty grip.

"You've got a tracked tag on me, don't say it," he muttered, face buried in her hair.

She patted his hand, black nail polish darting out to meet his eye. "I'm just doing my job," she said, complacent.

"Poorly," he amended, lips nipping her ear, "Doing your job poorly."

A smirk on her lips. "Thought I was your favorite."

"Don't flatter yourself,” he’s nuzzling her neck, breaths hot on her ear.

He felt her body ripple against him.

"Then maybe you shouldn't be getting the nice things, _boss_ ," she whispered, climbing on his lap and straddling him, "Maybe I'm giving too much away."

Their lips met.

They’d had each other figured out, as time passed, from the moment he said, “Hi,” (painfully, delightfully informal) aloud to her (and only her) in the conference room. It was a dance. He’d let her lead, she’d let him lead, and they’d move together, across the floor.

"I don't understand," he grinned against her lips, voice the most innocent he could muster, hands creeping below her waist, "Whatever do you mean?"

"You're a terrible actor," she remarked, hand mussing his hair.

"So _sorry_ ," he replied, kissing the tip of her nose, "I was Toto in the _Wizard of Oz_."

She leaned away, staring back at him, eyes in disbelief, "You're joking."

"Middle school, theatre class, look it up," he tapped her shoulder, "Thought you'd done your homework, Miss Hardy."

"You're just fucking with me,” she had half a smile on her lips, amused, but only halfheartedly so.

"Technically yes," the smug look in his eyes earned him a slap on the wrist, "And no. I had one line. Said it a lot."

She unlocked the phone in her free hand, started searching, and waved it in front of him before placing it on the table behind her, Google’s interface yet visible on the screen.

“You’re a piece of work, Mr. Osborn,” she said, finger jabbing at his chest.

He kissed her again, hard, lingering, as if filling himself from the thirst of her. “Hey, I had history before I met you, beautiful.”

"History," he could hear the exaggerated, emphasized italics in her tone, "What's trending now is your black v neck. Told you it'd be a hit."

She ransacked through the sale rack when they were at the Gap. She dragged him in, told him they'd stop there just for fun (she's got his bodyguards holding Paul Smith and Prada shopping bags by that time), and picked out the v neck, hand holding the shirt high in some kind of triumph he couldn't comprehend.

She had him try it on, said it showed off his figure, his curves, was too "shockingly compatible" with the skinny black jeans he was wearing, and insisted he wore it home.

He had looked worse.

The picture featured on the Harry Osborn fan page (people. People disgusted him.) was a paparazzi snap of him wearing the infamous shirt, sunglasses on and iced coffee in hand, strolling down Fifth Avenue, Felicia not far behind him.

It’s the particular item of clothing he was wearing, the one Felicia was trailing her hand down this minute.

The fabric was thin, and he was positive he almost purred.

( _He doesn’t_ do _purring_.)

“You know me,” he started, peeling the blazer off of her, “What they think means nothing.”

His fingers worked on her shirt next, lips at the base of her neck, sucking. “What I think, and what I want,” he muttered to her skin, “Is that the shirt should be getting some rest.”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s been out all day. Clings to me.”

She fingered the fabric, lips pursed, “Maybe I want you to leave it on.”

He stared at her, fingers stopped mid-motion. “Now _you’re_ fucking with me.”

“Not yet,” she retorted, hand slipping underneath his shirt, and grind down on him, “It looks good on you.”

He groaned.

“Not that good,” he protested, raising his head to examine his work. Solid, red marks. Good. His. That’s all it was. His. “You’ve seen me.”

“I’ve seen enough,” was her reply.

(Bitch.)

“You’re just denying yourself.” His fingers were at her shirt’s last button.

“Who says?” she’s bending her head close, lips kissing down his chest through the fabric. He’s shivering, easing himself into her, “I quite like the view, thank you.”

Damn those lips. Electric shocks, and they weren’t even in contact with his skin.

“I’m taking it off,” he declared. His hands left her shirt and gripped the hem of his.

“Well, I’m getting off.”

She’s turning away, when he had his arms around her hips, holding her back.

“Not without me.”

Her shirt was down on the floor when she turned to face him, bare skin up against his clothed one.

“Then be a good boy,” a whisper close to his ear, her arms wrapping themselves around him. He heard the distinct _click_ of her bra falling to the floor, and his lips went dry, his jeans constricting. “And leave it on for me.”

He’s gulping down air, dazed hand reaching for her when she slapped him away. “Uh-uh.”

“You’re not giving up, are you?” he sighed, exasperated, hands on her lap.

She was saying, all too calm, “It’s not half as fun without me, admit it," and he's found himself pressed flat at the skin between her breasts, her hand stroking his hair.

He moaned before he could stop himself.

“You’re lucky you’re you,” he growled, glancing up at her the second she’d let him go.

“ _You’re_ lucky you’re _you_ ,” she answered, finger twirling a strand of her hair, waiting, hips rolled in his direction.

He lost it then.

“ _Felicia_.”

He’d taken ahold of her, hands gripped on her shoulders, turning her around to face him and pushing her back on the couch, underneath him.

“Oh dear,” she murmured, voice a deliciously false girlish pitch, arms clinging to his neck.

“I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the late, late, late update - but here it is! I've had key words in my mind since the end of April. Somewhere along the way, there's a 13 + 6 hours of plane ride, time differences, traffic jams, office work, and daily exercises. I'd written during breaks at the office, in the subway, in the car. Everywhere.
> 
> But here it is.
> 
> And I'd wanted nothing less for my darling readers.
> 
> As always, thank you for stopping by, reading, leaving kudos, comments. You, all of you, each of you, everyone, you're my world. :) 
> 
> <3
> 
> x
> 
> PS. Virtual British Cream Scone Pudding (or Red Velvet Cupcakes, your choice) if you can spot the Dane references planted in the story :P 
> 
> PPS. Don't be afraid to stop by my tumblr at alittleintoxicated! To talk, comment, rant, anything. Feel free to leave Harry/Felicia prompts, if you'd like to. I love them too much to let them go :D. 
> 
> I'm sensing a third chapter, but I have to see how what I'm writing will turn out. (Crazy plot bunnies, huh.)


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